


Consulting Tailor

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flirting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sewing, Teenlock, Texting, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock works in a tailor shop, where a young John Watson needs his army uniform fitted.</p><p>  <i>"I'm apprenticing to Mr. Cabrera," he explained. "Its useful to my research on textile forensics."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock came back from stockroom and resumed his seat at his favorite machine, a weathered Bernina 1008 that was quite possibly his senior. He preferred the mechanical machine over the flashy computerized models despite himself. In the same way people might find a rotary dial phone satisfying, the cam-stack stitch selection always felt more like an accomplishment to him. It was a bit like being at the helm of some steam powered aircraft to be able to feel the incremental shift of precision in each twist of a knob.

Mr. Cabrera, the owner of the shop, and Sherlock's mentor, appeared from out behind the curtain to his office.

"I'll be going over to Berwick to take a look at that collection of wintersilks and get lunch. Make sure you take your hour," Cabrera said, picking up a swatch binder and tucking a clip board into it. "Even if you're not going to eat."

The suggestion was veiled as a criticism, like everything Cabrera ever shared with the young man. Sherlock emitted a contemptuous sigh and swung his feet up onto the work top, crossing his ankles.

"I'll start now."

"Don't forget again to flip the sign if you go out," Cabrera muttered as he swept out the door.

Sherlock wriggled a hand into his back pocket, and pulled out his lighter. He flipped it about in his palm a few times, trying to decide whether he'd prefer to have a smoke or run a series of burn tests on some new wool-poly blends he'd come across earlier that morning. Certain he had time for both, he decided he'd run the tests first (so he could come to them with a fresher nose), when he heard the sucking pop of the door opening despite the howling wind outside demanding it remain shut.

He was faced away from the door, but a fitting mirror facing opposite the entrance revealed the incoming young man. He was carrying a military uniform folded and bound with a strip of brown butcher's paper. _Blonde, irrelevant. Just under 1.7m, useful. Recently enlisted, but a college graduate, entering as an officer then. Medical, by the antiseptic attention to hygiene._ Sherlock studied the reflection briefly before he found himself locking eyes with it.

“You’ll be wanting your trousers brought up five centimeters, your cuffs four, and centerback of your jacket taken in, once you've seen the effect it gives your shoulders," he smirked at his own cheeky tone. "And if I might suggest, you’ll be interested in replacing the standard inner breast pocket with a slightly longer rendition, so that you can carry your favorite pen without losing it.”

The man nodded down at his front, and tapped his nearly overboard pen back into its home. "Brilliant," he muttered, shaking his head,  
"How can you tell? I'm not even wearing the uniform," he wondered aloud, waving the parcel up.

Sherlock swung his feet down from the table top and turned to the bewildered, windswept newcomer.

"You're a 48 short, but you're six percent shorter than the standard issue 48 regular uniform, which is all that's ever issued, hence the alteration. Your pocket has a habitual sink at one small point where your pen is positioned, but there is no trace of ink, even though you always carry the same pen, never lose the cap, but always store it downwards to preserve its flow. Callous on your left middle finger indicates more strenuous dedication to writing than the typical university graduate, and the corresponding right hand pocket in a standard issue jacket, where you would prefer to naturally withdraw your pen from, is only 10 centimeters deep, instead of a more secure fourteen."

"That's...amazing. And a surprisingly thoughtful suggestion for a stranger to make, to boot." The customer pulled on his earlobe in an effort to avoid licking his lips, a habit he was suddenly eager to break under this other man's observant eye. He saw the slight hesitation before the tailor spoke again.

"I could go on."

"I believe you," he assured affably.

Sherlock gave a sort of considering scowl. Ordinarily Cabrera handled customers, passing along fitting notes to Sherlock. When ever he was left to his own devices with a consult, he was generally met with indignant barks from people who were not interested in quite so frank a dressing-down.

"Shall I let down the sleeves before we take a look then?"

"Sounds like you have a pretty good imagination, even without," said the other man, handing off the folded outfit and then offering his right hand.

"Observation," Sherlock corrected.

"John, by the way." He smiled as they shook.

"Sherlock," he murmured in his inscrutable way, eyes glinting. He reached to slide a form across the worktop "Mind filling out the necessaries?"

"Yes, of course," said John, whipping out his pen to jot down contact details and check boxes. No allergies to fabric, detergents, latex, or fashion metals.

Sherlock settled down again in his seat, with the uniform jacket gathered across his knees once he'd put his feet up again. He favored snips over a seam ripper for just about any unstitching that needed doing, and kept a pair the size of his palm on a ribbon around his neck. It was always nice to get the first whack at an alteration, before a garment was even worn. Hemming a virgin pair of trousers was immensely satisfying. _Something to look forward to_ , he thought, intermittently glancing at the well composed fellow leaning over his writing- until he was eventually caught. John gave a questioning tilt of head before tucking his pen away. Sherlock smirked, and settled comfortably into the dissection of the cuff, disconnecting lining from facing, and carefully loosening the cheap fusible interfacing within. Why anyone bothered with any brand other than Armo Weft was beyond him; but he'd become a bit of a suiting snob, he knew.

"You the only one that works here?" John asked, interrupting his quiet task.

"I'm apprenticing to Mr. Cabrera," he explained. "Its useful to my research on textile forensics."

"Forensics?"

"A majority of criminals do wear clothes as they commit their offenses, I find."

"Is that what you're studying then, criminal justice?"

"I was, partly."

"That's quite an _Ingres' Violin_ for a tailor."

"Funny you should say that," Sherlock mused. He popped out of his seat and took his work to the ironing table, flopping out a sleeve board as he opened the steam valve.

"You must impress people being so... multitalented. I can never seem to get up the courage to share my writing, but I can perform an intubation without blinking."

John felt a bit silly. He wasn't trying at false modesty or anything, he just felt compelled to flatter and relate to this oddly accomplished stranger.

"I've always wanted to try sutures... Imagine, sewing a _person_."

"Erm, I don't have to. I'll wager your stitches would be cleaner than mine though," he said, watching Sherlock's nimble fingers coax the fabric beneath.

Sherlock finally held out the jacket to John, sleeves now ending in raw innards. Gesturing to the changing rooms on either side of the fitting mirror, he arched an eyebrow.

"Shall we?"

When John shut the changing room door behind himself he allowed his face to crack into a grin. He hadn't been so thoroughly eyed-up (to his knowledge, at least) in a long while. He changed into the first pair of trousers, and as he stepped into them found that Sherlock was right. While the waist fit him adequately, the hems caught under his heels and left him looking like he'd borrowed his father's clothes.

"You'll want to put your shoes back on, to identify a satisfactory break," called the voice outside the door.

John tucked his shirttails in, and popped his shoes back on before shrugging into the jacket and stepping out. Sherlock nudged a painted black cube into the middle of the fitting space, in front of the mirror. John stepped up obligingly. Once on the block, the tailor prowled around him once, picking up a cushion filled with twinkling safety-pins as he made his rotation. With agile little pinches he opened several and caught them in the corner of his pointed mouth. He dove to one knee in a moment, noting the ideal lengths on each side with twin demarcations, and then testing the look by folding the excess up inside the pant leg. He hummed an affirming sound, and stood up again, taking a step slightly behind and to the side of the fitting block.

"The seat feels all right, I presume?" he asked, as he tucked his index finger into the center back, and tested the fit pinching with his thumb and middle finger.

It was only one finger, one necessary, excusable finger, but no one had put so much as the tip of their pinky in John's trousers without some kind of warning before. He felt himself flush.

"Yeah," he said blurted, too enthusiastically.

Sherlock snapped open several more pins, catching them in his mouth again, and next took hold of John's left sleeve, rolling it into a fold, watching the result in the mirror, rather than in the flesh. He settled on a pleasing proportion, and set the length with a pin.

"How can you put pins in your mouth like that?" John heard himself ask aloud. It sounded like he might be worried of swallowing one but that wasn't quite what he was imagining at all.

Sherlock finished the left sleeve, and trailed over to the right before answering.

"Tailoring is fifty percent clever use of pins, and fifty percent sticking your hands in other people's clothes," he rumbled reasonably.

As John felt the very tips of Sherlock's fingers tickle against his wrist while he found a fold, he thought, _One hundred percent clever hands._

"Would you like to see the fitting to center back I suggested?"

John quickly nodded. He felt a hand at the top of his spine swoop downward and suddenly pluck at his jacket between the shoulder blades. Four more pins were put to work. Sherlock's hands stayed clutching the excess material at his back, and combined with the slight constriction of the form flattering fit, John felt a bit heated. Watching the keen eyes of the tailor in the mirror, as he peered over John's shoulder seemed more intimate than if he'd stared into the man's eyes directly. He wasn't just watching John, he was observing John's observation of him. A bit like trying to watch the light come on in the refrigerator to tell where the fascination originated.

"How's that?"

"You're right, it makes me look fit. The shoulders are great," John answered.

"You're already fit," quipped Sherlock, before changing tracks. "You have a second pair of trousers that need hemming, don't you?"

"Y-yeah," John jabbered, already unfastening his waistband and nearly about to drag it down before he remembered there was a changing room with a door he was meant to use, and he was, in fact, in a windowed shop room on a main street in London. Bit late though, he'd already flashed his red Y fronts at the other man, and so he brushed it off with a bit of a chuckle.

"Excuse me," he said, hopping off the block, holding up his trousers as he nipped back into the dressing room.

"Did you know, women in the military managed to get undergarment autonomy before the gents. Early attempts to design uniform foundations were woefully unsuccessful. Design by committee is rarely flattering."

"You don't say," John called back out, in his best imitation of nonchalance.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John had left the shop perhaps ten minutes later, somehow managing not to commit any further acts of public indecency, though he was most decidedly aware he had a bit of a crush on the odd Consulting Forensic Tailor. Who had called him fit. _Well, that's nice then._ Maybe he'd get his foot out of his mouth by the time he picked up his uniform in a few days. He settled down with some reading that evening, spine still tingling a bit. A few pages in, his mobile buzzed.

Professional opinion needed- SH

_Sorry, who's this?_

Sherlock, from earlier. Got your number from the drop off form, hope you don't mind. - SH

"Hellooo," he spoke aloud to the empty room. No he did not mind. A chance to chat a bit without being observed, and the ability to edit his stupider thoughts? How had anyone ever flirted before texting?

_Not at all. What's up?_

Trying to determine if I will require a tetanus shot.- SH

_Cut yourself? Ouch._

Not cut. I got myself through the finger on the industrial machine. - SH

_You finally got your wish of sewing a person, then?_

Oh, ha ha.- SH

_Couldn't resist. When was your last booster for tetanus?_

Eight or nine years ago. - SH

_Hmmm.. could go either way. It'll depend on the hygiene of the needle then._

_Any chance the needle had dirt, soil, spit, or feces on it?_

No, to dirt and soil, I am methodical about washing my hands in the loo. Seventy percent probability of spit however. - SH

Threading the needle, you know. - SH

_I don't, really._

_Your own spit though? Do you share the machine?_

I do not share the machine in question. - SH

_I'd say you're safe then. Soak in salt water or something stronger if you've got it on hand though._

_Did you go through the nail?_

No, clean in and out through the flesh. - SH

That sounded distasteful, to say the least. Impalement of any kind is to be avoided, of course, but John was a bit sensitive about his hands. He could just imagine Sherlock's longer, thinner, paler fingers dripping with- no.

_Did it hurt?_

More surprising than anything, really. - SH

_I bet you don't like surprises._

I like surprises. It's just very difficult to surprise me. - SH

_Hopefully you don't encounter many surprise stabbings, it might put you off the concept._

I would hardly call a needle jab a stabbing. - SH

_You are steadfastly unafraid of needles then?_

I sew, I am acquainted with syringes, and I have tattoos, I would hardly qualify as a trypanophobe. - SH

_Tattoos, eh?_

That's all you took away from that? - SH

_You weren't even wearing jeans, I'm just a little surprised._

Titillated, more like. - SH

 _Good_ , John thought. At least Sherlock was catching on. John had little enough experience trying to get on with other blokes, it would help if this one in particular was aware he was being chatted up. It had been pointed out to him by an ex-girlfriend that he possessed this strange quality of coming off as sociable when he was aiming for romantic, and besotted when he was merely being friendly. 

You were wearing jeans when you came in. Does that mean you /do/ have a tattoo? - SH

_You don't already know, mister "always store your pen downwards to preserve its flow"?_

I am observant, but I do not posses laser vision, would that I could. - SH

_A Caduceus._

Upper left arm, I expect? - SH

_Of course. You?_

Guess. - SH

_No fair, You didn't guess!_

I used my superior skills of interrogation to get you to divulge the information. - SH

_Hmm... Twenty questions then. I'll give it a shot. Is the subject animal, vegetable, or mineral?_

None of the above. - SH

_Is the design based on an inanimate object?_

Yes. 18. - SH

_Is it related to one of your hobbies?_

Yes. - SH

_Is it pertaining to science?_

No. - SH

_Is it by any chance text?_

No. 15. - SH

_Is sewing involved in the design?_

No. - SH

_Hmmm. Do you play any instruments?_

Yes. - SH

_Really? No, that's not the question. I could imagine... perhaps a G clef?_

No.- SH

_Damnit, That was a bad question, I didn't confirm if the tattoo is musical, I asked if /you/ were musical. Is the tattoo musical?_

Yes. 11.- SH

_Is the design based on musical notations?_

No. - SH

_Is it based on a woodwind instrument? That's what I might imagine you playing..._

Interesting. No. - SH

_Percussion?_

No. - SH

_Strings?_

Yes. 7. - SH

_Do I have to guess where it is, too? Is it very large?_

Yes. And subjective. 5. - SH

_5!? That didn't count._

I will not count "5!?" as a question, though you should know- it's customary to end a question with "?" punctuation. That'll be a clue you're indeed asking a question. - SH

John couldn't help but admire the cunning, as petulant as his opponent might be. What a sneaky, little- All right...Where? Where might a tall, languid Consulting Forensic Tailor have a string instrument related tattoo? He knew someone with amp dial behind their ear. He could imagine strings and a fret board running up an arm, too. But he had seen Sherlock's neck and forearms, and further more couldn't imagine him playing a guitar, much less an electric one.

_You're very generous. Is the tattoo in question on a limb?_

Not the tattoo in question, no. - SH

_I am surmising, but not asking- that you have another tattoo. Hmm.. you wore your collar unbuttoned, so I'm thinking.. On your back?_

Very good. Yes. - SH

_Oh, something you said. Or I said. About Ingres' Violin. Is it relating to the violin?_

Yes. - SH

_It MUST be f holes then. Like the photo._

It is. Man Ray's Violon d'Ingres. You found your answer with a question to spare. - SH

_Do I win anything?_

There was never a mention of a wager. - SH

_Maybe I should be allowed to see it. I'll show you mine._

Acceptable. If you will tell me the date and location you acquired it. It's sometimes useful to be able to age a tattoo, forensically speaking. - SH

_I'll bet._


	2. One Hundred Percent Clever Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right, you got what you wanted, here be the smutty conclusion to the Consulting Tailor.

Sherlock tucked his phone back into his pocket, thankful that he'd only managed to snag his left index finger. He supposed he'd get his work done without being slowed down tremendously. At least there would be no detour to A&E.  


After meeting the intriguing medical graduate, John, or "The 48 short" as Sherlock initially pegged him- he'd been hoping at a chance to rush a second encounter. He was so enamored with the idea in fact, that he insisted on staying after shop hours to "reorganize his kit"- when in actual fact he was going to finish John's alterations. On his own time. There would be no reason for Cabrera to object to that, surely. He was so distracted by the prospect, that to save time, he opted to use the blind-hemming foot on the industrial, instead of threading up the dreaded Merrow that loomed like a disagreeable bull in the corner. _Stupid._ His finger had drifted over the jig, which offered only the barest precaution in this instance. _Well._ At least he had recently become acquainted with someone qualified to advise his need for a tetanus shot.  


He settled back into his hemming, willing himself not to fantasize about John's investigations of his tattoos. _Pay attention._ Ruin too many more fingertips, and he'd be very sorry.  


Once he'd made his way around all four pant legs, he migrated back to the ironing table. He dragged each hem over the platform of the sleeve board, spritzed some vinegar water, and administered a final press. When everything was hanged and bagged, he dug out his phone again, hoping it wasn't indecently late to be texting.  


So what made you think woodwinds? - SH

_Just seemed like you might have the right traits for it._

Which traits would those be? - SH

_Well you have got that huge mouth. You must have noticed._   


I was just confirming that you had. - SH

Sherlock bit his lip, pleased that he was being well received. He had only one or two more maneuvers to make before he might get a chance to display what extracurriculars he _could_ perform with "that huge mouth".  


It looks like your order will be available for pick up late tomorrow. - SH

_When, late tomorrow, is that?_

Nine. - SH

_Closing time? Giving your all, up to the last minute then?_   


Something like that. - SH

_Well as terribly inconvenient as it is, I would be remiss in my responsibility to you if I didn't look in on that finger of yours._

_As I advised your treatment, you see._   


I must be terribly lucky to secure a house-call from you, with your busy schedule. - SH

_Pretty much. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be needing to scour Phalanges Quarterly to prepare for our appointment. G'night._   


Good night. - SH

Sherlock put away his phone, and set himself to tidying the shop before he left for the night. He tucked away some tattered jacket linings he'd be replacing, turned off the iron, and made a sweep with a magnet to rescue any wayward pins at the machines. Once the last machine was snug in it's dust jacket, he shut the lights and locked himself out.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, he was beginning to feel like his skin might burst, as he had been buzzing with expectation for over 24 hours. Or anxiety? No, he didn't do anything so fragile as experience anxiety. Whatever it was, Cabrera had certainly noticed.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, but you actually managed to shut down properly last night. If you can manage to do the same tonight-" he cast an appraising look over his bifocals, "I'll be off early today. Maybe if you can get a run going, say-a month of not leaving any of the machines on- I'll give you the difference in the electric bill for a bonus."

"I don't care about the money," noted Sherlock.

"I know you don't think about the future," remarked the older man, who was already headed toward the door.

"Willful ignorance. I thought I'd try it out, you all make it look like so pleasant."

"Mark my words, Sherlock Holmes; one day you are going to have something worth having a future over."

The door shut behind Cabrera, and Sherlock watched as he edged out of view in the windows. He knew that his employer would have liked to have groomed him for the business. Still, they were both aware that was not where this young man was headed. Dropping hems, rebuilding shattered vintage coats- it was all a temporary research project to Sherlock. If he meant to venture out as a itinerant detective, an errant knight- in a way, he would need to understand the armor of the local rabble.

Now, he hadn't counted on having his employer out of the way for the upcoming rendezvous. He was indecently lucky like that. It put him in mind that perhaps he ought to prepare, to create an atmosphere. It was only 7 o'clock, after all.

\-------------------------------------------------------

John arrives at quarter to nine, But Sherlock doesn't hold it against him.

"See you're still alive, despite your gruesome injuries," John kids, tossing a hand through his scruffy hair.

"I have nothing, if not a surprisingly resilient constitution," Sherlock agrees.

He holds out his hand for inspection, and when John takes it to examine his finger, he doesn't frown but simply passes his own finger tip over the wounds.

"Nothing to worry about," he declared, smiling genuinely up at the owner of the cleared finger.

Sherlock rummages, or pretends to rummage through the row of orders hung on a rack, and produces the hangers that belong to John.  
"Not worried about the trousers. Not really worried about any of it, I'm sure its excellent," John remarked.

"You should try the jacket, as it was taken in."

John insinuated himself into the jacket in front of the mirror, hopping up onto the fitting block- quickly deemed it pleasing, and made to unbutton again nearly as suddenly as he had fastened himself in.

"You're forgetting!" Sherlock exclaimed, following up to him in the little fitting cove. With a light waft he dipped his hand into the lapel, and withdrew John's pen, waving it teasingly under his nose.

John took the pen with a pinch and shot Sherlock a scowly smile.

"That really was- ah- an attentive idea. Sweet, even," he confessed. The pocket proved to be perfect, and John seemed to have lost his thought, and couldn't get his hands to agree whether or not they were going to take off the jacket again. He laughed at his wrong-footedness.

"Do you need a hand with that?" Sherlock inquired with a smirk. Naturally, John caught it in the mirror.

"Subtle," he mocked, turning to face Sherlock with mischievous narrowed eyes. Stepping down from the block, he slowly picked out each button, each release a beckoning. Sherlock, for once in his obstinate life, took the bait.

As John began to shrug out of the jacket, Sherlock's hands were suddenly on his button-down shirt, scrambling down the placket with speed that would flatter a quick-change artist. John was suddenly overcome with how much taller the other man was, as he crowded into him, and not to be outdone, he set one hand on Sherlock's hip, pointed a finger at his breastbone, and marched him backward until they encountered a wall full of muslin rolls.

Sherlock divested John of his shirt before they even made contact with the wall, and congratulated himself for his efficiency. Just as he discovered his hands free again, he thought of a place to put them. John took advantage of his shorter stature, and began to assail his jawline with firm kisses, as Sherlock slid his fingers into the back pockets of John's jeans. He took a squeeze at the shorter man's arse and was treated to a needy growl for his efforts. With absolute relish, he nudged towards John's frenzy at his throat and brought "that huge mouth" of his to meet John's lips.

The same way he would pick at seam encouragingly with his snips, Sherlock nibbled at John's lower lip until it too opened for his scrutiny. The slide of meeting tongues was sensory spree for him. Taste, texture, heat, pressure; all promising more than enough incentive to seek out more entanglement.

"Hey wait," interrupted John, ducking back a moment. "You promised you'd show me your F holes!" he chuckled a bit as he licked a corner of the tailor's mouth.

With a feigned harrumph, Sherlock twisted on the spot, facing the wall.

"Oh, c'mon, F holes are funny. Mmm.. That's more like it," approved John, connecting his hips to Sherlock's back side.

John inched his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock's immaculately fit trousers, and tugged at his tucked in shirttail. It was rather a nicer material than the average twenty-something might be wearing, but for a Consulting Forensic Tailor, a little luxury seemed to be in order. Sherlock delighted in the slip of someone else's silk covered fingertips drifting up the small of his back and shuddered a bit. Once John has uncovered the territory he meant to map, however, Sherlock felt electrified. John dropped to a knee behind him, and had embarked on tracing each inking of his pale skin with a twisting, lingering lick. The flourish at the end of first sinuous swipe made him aware of the stiffening in his trousers, and the second launched him back into action.

Sherlock spun in place, clutched John by his haunches, and swung him back around to pin him against the wall. Despite a surprised grunt, John took the maneuver in stride, settling one hand into Sherlock's curls, and the other back into the hem of his shirt. They kissed lazily for bit, slowly grinding, taking in each other's scent and sounds. To every uneven pant that the one emitted, the other answered with a tasting gasp. Sherlock flitted one hand at the bottom of John's vest, and walked two fingers up to John's chest, flicking each nipple experimentally until he found the effect he liked best. He thought it might be nice to taste the bit of John's clavicle, now too- and he was right.

"You're brilliant with your hands," John huffed.

"Mm- mark of a maker," said Sherlock, very purposefully buzzing his "M's" into the flesh under his lips.

"You should make me something."

"I'll make you come, how's that?"

Words failed John, and he only moaned as he started to thumb the button on Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock endeavored to do the same, and did his occupation as a professional garment worker proud when he managed to find his way inside and take John in hand first. _Not that it was a competition._ John groaned into Sherlock's mouth, and bucked his hips pressing his cock against Sherlock's hand. He was already achingly hard, and when Sherlock swipes his thumb over the glans, John gasps and squeezes at Sherlock's own stiffness urgently. They grind into each other's grip with the same pressing fury Sherlock has often applied to the most stubborn of wrinkles.

John gasps emphatically, a breathy commotion from his lips to Sherlock's before his head falls back against the wall. His strokes on Sherlock turn quick and messy, and with his free arm, he scoops John around his middle and determinedly rubs, eager to escort him to his climax. Sherlock can feel the muscle in John's back tense under his hand, and he burrows and bites his neck as he comes messily over Sherlock’s fingers. He draws out every spurt with certainty, although he is nearly breathless from John's merciless strokes.

"J-John," he breathes. Cum slicks John’s fingers, as well, and they fumble their way to conclusion, slithering down the wall to the floor.

"Should have examined that Caduceus of yours before I got myself into such a useless state," Sherlock rebuffs himself, eyes closed.

"Well that's your own fault, genius."

"I never make the same mistake twice," Sherlock says to John's hairline, tasting the sweat there. _Interesting_. He might like to make a study of more of John's tastes in future.

"Wanna get out of here?"

"Absolutely."

**Author's Note:**

> [Have some art :D](http://stitchnik.tumblr.com/post/49888479165/some-art-to-go-with-my-consulting-tailor)


End file.
